The State of Things
by Rhianwen
Summary: Joker finds that Wendy can be just as highmaintenance as any other woman when she wants to. Posted while in no mood to apologize for either JokerWendy, or for high melodrama content.


The State of Things

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Summary: Joker finds that Wendy can be just as high-maintenance as any other woman when she wants to. Features hysterical!Wendy and annoyed-with-women!Joker.

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Disclaimer: I don't own them, and they're probably somewhere laughing at me over a nice bottle of wine.

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"Would you like me better if I hated you?" 

He looks down, startled but showing no sign of it. He had thought she was long since asleep – one side-effect of a few glasses of wine for the first time in years – but the young woman nestled against his shoulder is watching him expectantly.

"If you hated me?" he repeats slowly.

She tugs free of the gentle clasp of his arm around her waist, and sits up.

"Would you find me more interesting or exciting if I thought you were an arrogant git and told you so daily?"

He raises one eyebrow as the bed sheets slip down to pool around her waist, and as his eyes move over her, he thinks idly that she is quite interesting enough for him right now, just as she is.

"Why would I think that?"

"Well, it _is_ something of a formula."

"A formula," he repeats slowly, willing the blankets and sheets to slip a little lower.

"You know; there's always a man who likes to be told that he's wonderful, but secretly admires the brave, spirited girl who will tell him the truth. And as he falls in love with her, he begins to hate the sweet, amiable girl who genuinely admires him."

He stares in well-masked bewilderment as her expression grows despondent and lost, and she draws her knees to her chest and leans back slightly against the headboard. Before he can respond, she has hurries on.

"So, maybe I'm much better off telling 'what I really think of you' – that you're arrogant, mean, and generally a swotty little boy in need of a good, sound spanking."

He laughs, a startled laugh.

"A swotty little boy, who needs a good sound spanking," he repeats slowly. "Honestly, I don't find it particularly endearing that this is 'what you really think of me'."

"It's not _really_," she huffs, exasperated, and he laughs again. "But maybe you'd like me better if it was. And I told you so, constantly."

"If you spent your days harping on such things, I would more likely find you rude, not to mention childish and weak."

She blinks down at him curiously.

"Weak?"

"Any fool with no self-control can spit out insults like a difficult child. I fail to see why I should consider it admirable."

"Any fool can pretend amiability, too, and just keep saying that things are fine when they aren't."

"I think it takes a certain amount of self-control and common sense to keep one's opinions to oneself when they aren't wanted or needed."

"Oh, lucky me!" she exclaims, choking back a slightly hysterical laugh. There is a catch in her voice that he isn't entirely sure he likes, and he wonders if she will prove a little more difficult to deal with tonight. "I'll sweep you off your feet with my self-control and common sense!"

He pushes himself into a sitting position and rests one hand gently on either of her shoulders, pulling her back against him, and suppressing the urge to wince as she pulls away roughly.

Suddenly, this – the sheets and blankets tangled around them, her skin smooth and responsive beneath his hands and mouth, the comfortable warmth between them as pulses gradually returned to normal – is seeming like a very bad idea; the slight unsteadiness in her normally graceful walk, and in her normally unfaltering gaze, and in her normally controlled voice should have told him that she would be unable to guard her words and disguise what is more easily and comfortably ignored than dealt with.

But, perhaps because of the drink he himself has consumed, the knowledge of this distinct danger had seemed nowhere near as important, as real, as the warmth of her hand on his, her boldness in such a casual touch, the warmth in her smile and laugh, and the temptation to peel that little red dress of hers from the slight curves it clung to just tightly enough to remind him of why he has done this before.

"I think you're overtired and distraught," he finally tells her gently. "And it's late, after all. You ought to get some rest."

"I don't need rest," she flashes back. "I need you to answer the question."

"Do I find you boring? Definitely not," he says, reaching for her and running one hand lightly down her back, not even trying to hide his smile as a strong shudder runs through her and she leans almost unconsciously into his touch.

"But would I be more interesting if I hated you?" she asks after a moment, her breathing noticeably quicker as she pulls away and twists about to face him.

"How on earth would you become more interesting by throwing tantrums at me constantly?"

"I would be more of a challenge."

"More of an aggravation."

"But men like that, don't they?"

He affects a look of curiosity.

"Being annoyed?"

"Well, they certainly like to grump about things enough that anyone would expect them to," she replies, entirely innocent despite mocking words.

He frowns sharply, and almost as an afterthought, raises one hand to cup her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"I think you ought to recall exactly who you're speaking to."

She watches him appraisingly for a long time, and it is fairly clear that he won't be getting an apology.

His frown deepens.

"Well, then. If you can't bring yourself to behave like more than a silly child, perhaps you ought to be taken just as seriously as one."

"It's as seriously as you ever regard me, anyway, isn't it?"

"_That_ is simply not true. I think, my dear, that you have made up your mind to be miserable this evening. Nothing is going to calm you down, simply because you don't _want_ to be calmed down. Therefore, it is a waste of time to try. The only remedy for _this_, I am afraid, is sleep."

That would be far easier for her if he were to go.

Nevertheless, he is reluctant to venture from this snug little nest of pillows and blankets when he had just begun to drop off to sleep, and the idea of sending _her_ to sleep elsewhere is not so appealing as it might be. She's _warm_, after all, and there's something about waking up with her hair spilling softly over her shoulder and shining in the pale rays of early morning sunshine through the window, that he likes.

But this sentiment is easily retouched and reshaped into a more comfortable desire to _test her ability _to deal with less than ideal situations. She is upset, it seems, but if she is the girl he believes her to be, she will be able to set her absurd little insecurities to the side and go calmly and sensibly to sleep.

Apparently, she is not.

"I have not 'made up my mind to be miserable'," she mutters. "_You_ just can't give a straight answer to a straight question."

"I believe I gave you your 'straight answer' several times. Unless I've misheard the question. Maybe you're not asking me if being a little shrew would make you more interesting, but something else. If you're hinting at something, my dear, I would greatly appreciate if you would stop it, and ask your question so that at least one of us can make some pretence at sleep tonight."

He can't tell if the expression of mute misery threaded through with hints of panic and desperate hope are in response to his suddenly far sharper tone, or to these questions that she is trying to ask him without asking.

She turns hastily away, and he finally has his apology from her, although her half-resentful mutter, thick with tears, is hardly as contrite as he would prefer.

"Well?" he prompts gently, resting one hand on her arm as she curls up on her pillow and drags the sheets and blankets up higher. "Did you have a_ different question_ for me?"

The next second, he gives a startled exclamation of pain as her shoulder nearly breaks his nose when she turns over roughly to face him. He opts against annoyance, though, when the tears gleaming on her cheeks catch his eye. This one, he recalls wearily, doesn't cry anymore without a damn good reason.

And while he would hardly have called _this_ a damn good reason, the warm salty drops against his hand when he moves to cup her cheek gently would apparently indicate the opposite.

"Alright, if you want another question, I have one," she tells him softly, voice shaking and sounding almost pitifully defeated. "If being a bitch in the interest of being _less boring_ won't make you care if I drop off the face of the earth tomorrow, what in the Hell _will_? _What can I do_?"

With a long sigh, he leans over her and brushes his lips lightly against the teardrops, one by one.

After several minutes, when both are breathless from damp and heated kisses, he is fairly certain she has given up waiting for an answer although the tear tracks are still clearly visible, and really, he thinks as he pulls her to him and runs one hand soothingly through her hair, it's just as well.

Because he hasn't got an answer.

How is he to tell her that she will never have the sort of affection from him that she wants, because she already _does_, as much as anyone can? He can't tell her, especially now, that all the interest he is able and willing to spare for such silliness is focused on her, and that even the amount that he allows her to occupy his thoughts now is far more than he knows is strictly wise.

Which is why he's made far more allowances for her than he knows is wise, either: seeing her distress and occasional doubt, and still allowing her to come to her own conclusion, prompting her only occasionally, and mostly through kindness.

And even that, he feels uneasliy, is more to soothe away misery than to convince.

The last time they'd visited the Dokusensha headquarters, for instance; a sharp glare and a promise of scolding later _should_ have been his first reaction when he'd seen her hands shaking as her eyes had lit on the recently dead men sprawled on the floor. Instead, he had found himself resting his hands gently at her shoulders, fingers barely brushing her neck, and congratulating her on excellent work.

Disturbing, the way his intentions seemed to completely shift with nothing more than an expression of terror in big blue eyes that are nearly all that's left of the silly child he's worked to transform into a calm and capable woman. Almost as disturbing as the sensation of pure, tingling warmthwhen that _smile_had flashed into existence in place of terror, adoring and sweet and surprisingboth of them that she could still look like that.

Guilt and empathy are things that he can recognize easily in others, but he's far less adept atdealing with his own. Particularly when heconsiders what they might mean.

For a moment, he frowns slightly against the top of her head, and wonders if brushing over this incident, simply never mentioning it again unless she does so first and gently scolding her if she does, will do more harm than good.

But somehow, the prospect of giving her an entirely honest answer to _this_ question, and taking the risk that what he can give her is not enough, is more distasteful than it has any right to be.

Of course, the idea that she might close herself off from him in any way that does not relate directly to their work _shouldn't _annoy him to the point that anyone she _does_ spend this sort of time with has as good as sentenced himself to death.

But it does.

He brushes a light kiss against her forehead, and returns her forced smile with one equally forced.

Maybe he'll answer her someday, but not tonight. Right now, they're both tired - she might _say_ she needs answers and not rest, but that alone shows how badly she does - and this sort of conversation is best taken without a head still spinning a little from the wine.

And so, he pulls her closely against him,tries to answerwithout words the question she can't ask,and tries very hard not to think about the possibility that it's finally happened; the years of _pretending_ that have never fooled her have finally become reality.

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End Notes: Okay, I don't know. A lot of rambling to make a point that a good, hard edit could probably arrive at in a thousand words less. :P 


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